Page 68 of The Breakup Artists

I open my mouth to protest.

“Shush, or I might lose my nerve.”

I watch her attentively, struck by her bravery, even as she’s telling me to shut up.

“What I just told you about feeling lost? Well, being popular was kind of a Band-Aid for that. You’re one hundred percent right that when you’re popular, people don’t scrutinize you the same way. And I didn’t want people scrutinizing me or seeing me at all actually. I told you my friends and I had a falling-out? What I didn’t say was that dating Justin fixed that, sealed the deal on our collective popularity. When he showed interest in me, my status rose fast. I guess it was my version of hiding in plain sight?”

For a brief moment, I’m dumbfounded by her courage. I know how hard it is to really look inside at the things that aren’t pretty and shiny, but admitting those things to another person is damn near impossible. “Wow... I...”

She flinches, and I realize in one horrible flash of a second that she thinks I’m stumbling because I’m judging her.

I self-correct. “You might be the most incredible girl I’ve ever met.” Fantastic. Now I’ve swung the pendulum a little too far and I feel like an idiot.

She looks as surprised as I am.

“Sorry, I just meant...” I try to shake my thoughts clear. This part of the job is usually so easy for me—right ideas at the right time and people make better choices. But the connection that Ella and I share over our grief is real, and I have no rulebook for that, no helpful one-liner to speed her along to reevaluate her relationship. So, at a loss, I once again tell the truth. “What I mean is... I wish I was as brave as you.”

Her expression relaxes and with it her eyes, a small smile pulling at her bowed lips. “Well, I think you’re pretty brave. You’re teaching me to paint. You’re talking about things that make you uncomfortable. Those are big steps.”

Her words hit me hard, some part of me really wanting her approval. For the first time in a case, I experience regret that I can’t talk to Ella simply as myself, and guilt that if I told her the truth, I might hurt her. “Ella...” I rub my forehead.

“Connecting,” she says, and I meet her eyes. “I asked you what you were doing here, connection or attraction... a totally unfair question. And now I’m answering. I’m connecting with you. And if I’m being honest, you’re the most surprising guy I’ve ever met.”

I’m instantly reminded of what I told her in the crêperie, that my type is surprising girls. Heat rises in my cheeks so fast that I have no way to stop it. And in what can only be described as the worst timing ever, a man clears his throat. I launch out of my chair.

“Dad?” Ella says, standing, too, both of us horribly aware that her father likely heard the last things she said. “What are you doing home?”

“Forgot some paperwork,” he says and looks from Ella to me. “And you are?”

“Holden, this is my dad. Dad, Holden,” Ella says, gesturing in the space between us, but never looking directly at me.

I’ve done this plenty of times; I know how to remeet parents, I remind myself, but it does nothing to stop the feeling that I’m free-falling.

“Hi, Mr. Becker,” I say, extending my hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

He shakes it. “I take it you two are friends?” he asks his daughter.

Ella laughs. “Dad, you’re being awkward.” Parents are never good at this part, and that’s when they’re not already annoyed over forehead profanity and possible discussions about connection or attraction.

He assesses me. “Holden, is it?”

“Yes it is, sir.”

He gives me a hard stare.

Ella pulls her hair over her shoulder and twists it. “Well, he’s not going to be my friend for long if you keep looking at him like that.”

But Ella’s dad makes no effort to adjust. “I’m perfectly okay with that.”

I swallow.

Ella frowns. “There was a message for you earlier. A call from London? Sounded kind of urgent.”

Whatever this means, it has the desired effect of grabbing his attention. And they exchange a few quick sentences that I can’t focus on because I’m stress-texting Tiny.

He walks away with no goodbye.

Ella looks embarrassed. “Sorry,” she says, but it’s obvious that our time is up. Neither of us knows what to say about our talk, her father, or the strange feeling of having shared too much. So I excuse myself politely and then play back our conversation a thousand times in my head on the way home.